Found
by thedragonaunt
Summary: This one-shot contains SERIOUS SPOILERS for the Sherlock Special, The Abominable Bride. If you HAVE NOT seen that, DO NOT read this! It is NOT part of my Sherlolly Saga. Rated T for certain references, which some people may find upsetting.


**This is the third and final part of my post-TAB trilogy. If you haven't seen The Abominable Bride, do not read this as it contains serious spoilers for that episode.**

 **Many thanks to elbafo for her invaluable assistance with this one-shot. If you don't already, make sure you read her work on ff dot net - especially 15 Minutes and Mutual Suicide Pact.**

 **Found**

 **by**

 **thedragonaunt**

Molly had never gone to 221B Baker Street uninvited. She had only ever been there three times before.

The first time was that awful Christmas Eve get-together, when she had taken a rare opportunity to glam up only to find, when she arrived, that everyone else had dressed casual. And, as if that wasn't embarrassing enough, Sherlock had chosen to show off his deductive powers by analysing her bag of presents, homing straight in on the one she had chosen and wrapped so carefully for him.

Absolutely every other person in the room knew who that present was intended for, long before he read the label and was – for once – stunned into silence. And – again, for once – Molly had chosen not to make allowances for his rudeness and had spoken her mind, confronted him, let him see the effect that his behaviour had on the people in his life.

The fact that he immediately apologised stunned everyone. Apologies were things that Sherlock Holmes did not do! But that simple act had been an epiphany for Molly, as it revealed that it was never his intention to hurt her and that he regretted having done so. And it changed their relationship in an instant.

The second time was when Sherlock texted her to come over and then asked if she would like to solve crimes with him. She had made a silly joke about having dinner and he had given her that old fashioned look. It had been a really lovely day, too, and he had invited her for chips! – not quite dinner. But it was also a very sad day because, in the end, they both knew that it could never happen again.

He had been so sweet, congratulating her on her engagement, telling her she deserved to be happy, reminding her that not every man she fancied could be a sociopath. She still didn't know whether he had heard her reply.

The third time was the afternoon they all gathered to celebrate Sherlock's safe return from 'the dead' and John and Mary's engagement. The way Sherlock – and everyone else, for that matter - had looked at Tom had been so obvious! And yet, she hadn't seen it up to that point. She certainly did that day, though, and it turned out to be the beginning of the end of her attempt at a normal relationship with a normal man. It was a long, slow death, culminating at John and Mary's wedding reception with Tom's 'meat dagger' comment and then his 'he's drunk' follow-up. There was no coming back from that stab with the fork!

As the Metropolitan Line tube train rattled into Baker Street station, Molly shook herself out of her reverie and squared her shoulders for the task ahead.

Sherlock had been home for a week and, according to Greg Lestrade, was working again. At some point in the not too distant future their paths would undoubtedly cross and Molly did not want that first meeting to be in a public place in front of witnesses. There were certain things that needed to be said and said in private. So she had made her way to Marylebone, unannounced, to beard the lion in his den.

She had no idea what sort of reception to expect, though she assumed it would be cool if not hostile. But she had to make her peace with him or, at the very least, come to some sort of amicable agreement that would allow them to continue to work together, even if any hope of reviving their former friendship was dead in the water.

Molly stepped up to the front door of 221 Baker Street and contemplated the array of door bells. If Sherlock answered the door, chances were she would not get past the threshold. Mrs Hudson was more likely to allow her inside the building. After that, it was anybody's guess. Bearing that in mind, she opted for 221A and gave it a decisive ring.

She waited a few moments, listening to hear the inner door open before the outer door swung inwards to reveal Sherlock's septuagenarian landlady. Mrs Hudson gave Molly a quizzical look before her face cracked into a broad smile.

'Molly Hooper!' she exclaimed and reached out to give Molly a warm hug.

'Hello, Mrs H! Lovely to see you again,' Molly replied, returning the hug and the smile. 'Is he in?' she asked, when they broke apart.

Mrs Hudson's face morphed into a frown.

'Yes, he is. He's not been out all week, ever since he got back from…well, you know,' she replied, her brow furrowing.

'Oh,' Molly replied, a little confused. 'DI Lestrade said he was working.'

'Yes but only from his sitting room,' the old lady replied. 'He's interviewing clients and doing research on his phone and laptop.'

'Well, it's a start, I suppose,' Molly mused. 'So, can I see him?' she asked, drawing attention to the fact that they were still standing on the doorstep.

'Oh, sorry! Of course you can! Come in, dear!' Mrs Hudson exclaimed, ushering Molly into the hallway and preceding her up the stairs. At the first landing, the landlady tapped on the sitting room door and gave her signature 'Hoo hoo' greeting before pushing the door open.

'Yes, what is it, Mrs Hudson?' Molly was hearing Sherlock's voice for the first time in many weeks and he did not sound terribly pleased to be disturbed.

'You have a visitor,' the landlady advised.

'Then show them in,' he snapped, irritably.

Molly steeled herself for a frosty reception as Mrs Hudson stood aside and she stepped into the room.

Sherlock was seated in his leather and chrome chair, by the fireplace. He was clean shaven, his hair was neatly groomed and he was dressed in one of his designer suits. These were all positive signs. He looked up as Molly entered the room and met her gaze with a cool, neutral expression.

'Hello, Sherlock,' Molly said.

He stared at her for several seconds than glanced at the chair opposite – John's chair – with a slight lift of his chin, giving her permission to sit.

Molly lowered herself into the armchair, placing her voluminous work bag on the floor by her foot and folding her hands in her lap.

'How are you?' she asked, taking in his hollow cheeks and the fact that his shirt – though still close fitting – was not straining at the buttons. He had lost even more weight since she last laid eyes on him, in Paddington Green Police Station top security custody suite, on New Year's Eve.

Sherlock continued to stare at her, silently, but gave an almost imperceptible twitch of his eyebrows in response to her enquiry. Molly interpreted that to mean as well as can be expected. She pursed her lips and nodded in acknowledgement.

'Greg said you were working again,' she said.

This time, his brows beetled, expressing irritation at her small talk, which prompted Molly to bite the bullet and get straight to the point of her visit. She drew a deep breath and opened her mouth to speak but was pre-empted by Sherlock launching himself from his chair and striding into the kitchen, saying,

'Tea?'

'Er, yes please,' Molly replied, turning in her seat to follow his progress with her eyes before rising and moving into the other room, to stand on the opposite side of the kitchen table that doubled as a chemistry lab.

As Sherlock busied himself, filling the kettle and putting it on to boil then preparing the tea tray with teapot, cups and saucers, sugar bowl and milk jug, Molly perused the lab equipment – unusually clean and arranged in neat rows, most likely Mrs Hudson's handiwork - and wondered, idly, why he hadn't just produced his own drug of choice rather than buying it at inflated prices from dealers.

'Couldn't be arsed,' Sherlock answered her unspoken question. She looked up to see him giving her a lop-sided, sardonic almost-grin.

'Just as well,' she mused. He would probably be dead by now if he had taken that option.

He turned away, intent on rearranging the items on the tea tray. The kettle clicked off and Sherlock poured the boiling water into the teapot, put on the lid and picked up the tray.

'After you,' he said, turning toward the sitting room and, with a tilt of his chin, inviting Molly to return to her chair.

Once they were both re-seated, each holding a cup of the hot beverage, Molly spoke again.

'Tell me, Sherlock.'

'Tell you what?' he asked, with a tetchy shrug of his shoulders.

'Tell me what happened.'

'You know what happened,' he snorted.

'Yes,' she conceded, patiently. 'I meant tell me how it happened.'

He gave her a disgruntled scowl. It wasn't something he particularly wanted to talk about. But, as Molly took a sip of tea and returned her cup to its saucer, waiting for him to respond, he felt obliged to comply. He owed her that much, he supposed.

'All those weeks in hospital,' he began, without preamble, 'mainlining morphine? It was so…easy.'

He looked at the floor, avoiding her eyes. Molly sat quietly, concerned not to distract him with random movement. Getting him to talk had been so much easier than she had imagined but she knew it was a fragile truce.

'They even gave me a button with which to switch my brain on and off,' he went on, his voice low-pitched, contemplative. 'All those hours and days of inactivity, I had to do something to combat the boredom. That's when I came up with my brilliant scheme to lure Magnussen with my brother's laptop.'

He gave an ironic bark of laughter. Lure! An interesting choice of word. Sobering immediately, he raised his gaze to meet hers.

'I'm guessing the honey trap was your idea,' he said.

Molly nodded, maintaining eye contact. She had no regrets.

'Yes, I thought so. If Mycroft had thought of it he would have done it years ago,' he declared.

Molly frowned and Sherlock had the good grace to look contrite.

'I didn't go to Appledore with the intention of killing Magnussen, Molly,' he said, solemnly. 'But when I found out it was all in his head – all those secrets and indiscretions he used to control, manipulate and harass people – well, there was one glaringly obvious solution.'

He paused, suddenly reticent about telling all. Bearing his soul did not come easily. But this was Molly Hooper, not one of the professional counsellors with whom he had been obliged to share his innermost thoughts and feelings, over the last several weeks.

'I've never killed before,' he said, at last. 'I've seen people killed – Jeff Hope, the cabbie, that CIA agent in Irene Adler's house and various other individuals during my time away. I always wondered how it felt to take a life and to know, beyond doubt, that it was you who had done it. Well, I know now.'

Wrinkling his brow, Sherlock took another sip of his fast-cooling tea then placed the cup and saucer on the side table by his elbow.

'Yes, it seemed like the perfect solution!' – he mimed aiming a gun and pulling the trigger – 'But would I have done it, if I hadn't been completely off my face?'

He paused, as though considering the question.

'No, I would not,' he concluded. 'Not even to save…never mind.'

Gripping the arms of his chair with both hands, he pushed up out of the seat and walked over to tweak the net curtain aside and gaze through the window onto the street below.

'So you were high when you went to Appledore,' Molly confirmed.

'God, yes,' Sherlock tossed the reply over his shoulder in her general direction. 'I'd been on a permanent high since the day I was shot. Wasn't it obvious?'

Molly had to admit it was, although she had only seen him in hospital. Once he was discharged, she hadn't seen him at all – until New Year's Eve.

'And before you were shot?' she asked.

'That was for a case…' he snapped, defensively, swinging around to glare at her.

'Yes, so you said,' she replied, calmly, 'but that's not the whole truth, is it?'

Sherlock turned back to the window while he reviewed his options. He wasn't obliged to share any of this. He could just tell her to leave. But, oddly, he really did want to be honest with Molly Hooper - which was strange, since he'd lied through his teeth to everyone else, including the counsellors at that uber-expensive rehab centre to which Mycroft had insisted on sending him, in Scotland of all places. It was either that or be detained at Her Majesty's Pleasure so...

Damn Mycroft!

'I was at the wedding, remember,' Molly added, interrupting his musings.

Sherlock conceded the point.

'Yes, alright,' he muttered and returned to his chair.

'Mrs Hudson said I wouldn't understand because I always live alone,' he began. 'Well, that's not true, of course. I used to live alone…and then I didn't, I lived with John. He and Mary insisted that nothing would change but it already had!'

He gave Molly an ironic smile and continued,

'When I returned from dismantling Moriarty's empire, I honestly believed I'd be able to pick up exactly where I left off. I imagined everyone would be on 'pause' while I was away – stupid, I know!' He spread his hands, incredulously.

'Then I came back. You were engaged, John was living with Mary… That was when I discovered you all had separate lives. You'd all just carried on without me. Well, I confess that I had been blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.'

Although his smile was self-mocking, it failed to mask the hurt.

'And even though John eventually forgave me - after I tricked him into thinking he was about to die - and we went back to solving crimes together, I rather missed those fireside chats we used to have. Mrs Hudson was right about one thing, though. Marriage changes everything. After the wedding, John disappeared off the face of the earth – for a whole month! And, if he hadn't come looking for that Isaac…whatever his name was,' he waved a hand, dismissively, 'and found me there, too, I wonder for how much longer?'

The smile had disappeared completely.

'You see, contrary to popular opinion – mostly put about by me, I admit – I'm not good alone.'

'So that's when you started using again, after the wedding?' Molly prompted.

Sherlock looked down at his hands.

'Before the wedding?'

He inclined his head – almost a wince.

'While you were away?'

'According to Old Norse mythology,' he said, 'the berserkers used to venerate a spirit animal – in their case, the bear – and, before going into battle, they would enter a trance-like state and become one with the bear. It enabled them to go into battle fearlessly and fight savagely. During the Vietnam War, GI's used to employ cannabis and LSD to achieve a similar end result. I believe the term is Dutch Courage. I used a lot of Dutch Courage while I was away.'

This was news to Molly - and so much worse than she had ever imagined. He had been away for two whole years and back for several months when John Watson found him in the crack den.

'So you were using regularly for all that time?' she gasped.

'Not all that time,' he snorted, indignantly. 'As and when, to begin with, and not at all when I first came back but…after the wedding…'

'You were lonely,' Molly finished his sentence for him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave a disgruntled huff. How pathetic that sounded - and how pathetic it made him feel - but it was the simple truth. He had felt abandoned and isolated and – yes – desperately lonely. More lonely than he had ever felt before.

It came as no great surprise to Molly that the man sitting opposite had abandonment issues. One didn't build defences as impenetrable as his unless one had a very fragile ego to protect. What she hadn't realised was just how much he had lowered those defences for John Watson. And for her! And they had both let him down.

She had seen him leave John and Mary's wedding reception. How bitterly she now regretted not following him out, not trying to persuade him to return, not letting him know how much he was loved, needed and appreciated by his friends.

'Sherlock, there's no shame in being lonely,' Molly said, softly.

'Easy for you to say!' he scoffed.

'No…actually, it's not,' she replied.

'Sorry,' he said, with genuine regret, pricking Molly's conscience.

'Don't apologise…' she began but he cut her off.

'When a man who never apologises offers an apology, you really should accept it graciously,' he snapped, irritably. 'So, is there anything else I can help you with?' he asked, looking pointedly at his watch and adjusting his position in the chair, reminding Molly that his defensive shield was on a hair trigger.

'What I mean to say is, we should apologise to you,' she pressed on, holding up a forestalling hand when he seemed about to launch out of his seat again. 'We never thanked you for what you did for us. In fact, we even thought you were being selfish…'

'No, you didn't, Molly Hooper,' he contradicted, his expression softening. 'You knew the truth and you kept my secret.'

He leant back in his chair and plaited his fingers together in a pensive pose.

This was no one's fault but my own, he thought.

Mycroft was right – though it pained him to admit it. His brother warned him not to get involved, told him that caring was not an advantage. Moriarty would have had nothing over him if he hadn't allowed himself to care. John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson would not have been in any danger. He would not have needed to jump off the roof, pretend to be dead, disappear for two years.

'So, please don't apologise, Molly,' he said. 'You owe me nothing. You were never in any danger and, as I said before, I couldn't have done any of it without your help.'

He curled his fists and rested them on the arms of his chair, fixing her with a look of resignation.

'What's done is done,' he declared, drawing a decisive line under the subject.

Molly could see that her audience was almost at an end so, if she was going to say what she came to say, it was now or never.

'Sherlock, I know that staying clean after a relapse such as yours is so much harder than keeping clean…'

His eyes rolled dramatically but she pressed on, regardless.

'…and I want you to know that I am here to support you. Anything I can do…anywhere, any time, you only have to ask…Please, just ask.'

He had heard enough. Placing his hands flat on the armrests he went to push up from the chair but Molly was on her feet and standing right in front of him, giving him no choice but to sit back again and listen.

'But,' she declared, with grim determination, 'if you lapse again, I won't help you. You're on your own.'

He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

'Staying clean is something only you can do,' she continued. 'No one can do that for you. You have to really want it for yourself. And I'm not Mycroft. I won't be your safety net, ready to catch you when you fall,' she concluded and stepped back again.

Sherlock turned her words over in his mind, testing them, tasting them.

Was this a threat? An ultimatum? Toe the line, or else...? Or was it a pledge? A promise? A gesture of solidarity? He was so accustomed to Mycroft's nanny approach - always there but disapproving, long-suffering, self-sacrificing - it took him a while to decode this conundrum.

Then he stood up, slowly, and placed his hands on Molly's shoulders.

'I'm sorry', he said.

'Sorry for what?' she asked, apprehensively. Was this where he told her to piss off?

'How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with? And how dare you betray the love of your friends. Say you're sorry,' Sherlock replied, quoting her own words back at her. 'So, I'm saying sorry…because I really am.'

Molly felt the pressure of emotion building and swallowed hard, barely holding it together, as she moved forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her face against his chest. Sherlock banded his arms around her and rested his cheek, lightly, on top of her head.

Maybe Mycroft wasn't so right. His concept of caring was based on their fraternal relationship, where Mycroft cared and Sherlock resented him for it. What Molly was offering had a very different dynamic - a reciprocal arrangement. Her hand was open but he didn't have to take it. He had a choice - which made it all the more attractive as an option. Perhaps he could do this, after all.

ooOoo

 **That's me done with TAB, now. However Moftiss decide to deal with the situation they created, I would still prefer they had never created it in the first place. If any one else feels the same, I hope my efforts at damage limitation are helpful. Thanks for reading, faving, following and reviewing my stories. :)**


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